The Persian
by ultimateGambit
Summary: A plea made across space and time changes the course of one boy's life forever. Would history be altered if a boy from the hills north of Susa took destiny in his own hands and grew up to become the proud Persian man he was destined to be? Bagoas, Alexander, Hephaestion, Oxyathres, Oromenos and many others
1. The hand of fate

**Author's Notes**: This story is heavily inspired by Mary Renault's origin of Bagoas in her book, The Persian Boy. I have a short story, called "Make me once more" that, if you care to read, provides a sort of intro to this Alternate Universe take on Bagoas.

I was fascinated by quantum theory in high school and its close linkage to one of Science Fiction's most interesting concepts: the multiverse. Add to that some deep-dive into Zoroastrian beliefs after reading The Persian Boy, and the plot bunny went crazy on me.

As a warning, if you hated/despised/wanted to slap Bagoas in Renault's book, this story is not for you. I borrowed Bagoas from Mary with the promise to take good care of him, so he's getting the star(or as I call it, "my precious baby") treatment. The story might offer something for the Alexander/ Hephaestion lover, but the focus is not on them. I'm not even sure there's going to be much romance in this and we won't meet Alexander for a good while.

The first chapter rehashes quite a bit of The Persian Boy's first pages, but once we reach the divergence point, there won't be too much in common with the book, although I'll keep some character interactions and plot points.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

**Chapter 1**

**The hand of fate**

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

My name is Bagoas, and the line which I come from is as old as the ancient fort I lived in for the first ten years of my life. My father was Artembares, son of Araxis of the Pasargadai, King Cyrus' old royal tribe. Three of our family fought for him when he conquered the crown of Media.

Before I left the woman's quarters at the tender age of five, as is the custom of my people, my mother raised me on legends of the Great King. Father taught me about honor, courage and justness, helped me mount my first horse and showed me how to hold and throw a spear. Those were carefree days, full of laughter, spent in the thrill of the hunt and in the joy that young ones find in all the yet to be discovered mysteries of the world. All that changed the summer of my tenth year.

It took me some time to remember everything about those days, a child's mind working in unmapped ways, and sometimes we must forget the past in order to build a future, at least until it comes back to demand its due sacrifice.

We lived in dangerous times, times when my abhorred namesake, the Vizier Bagoas, was rumored by all to be the maker and breaker of kings. After King Ochos died under suspicious circumstances, father was quick to declare for Ochos' legitimate heir, his son Arses. I often wondered where I would be now if Arses had the eunuch removed from the land of the living, but I have learned not to question fate's strange turns. In truth, the game those so inclined play with our empire is sometimes hidden from the common people's view and not even the ones writing down deeds for sons of our sons know everything there was.

What's not to be doubted is that my family was murdered through treachery. My father was preparing to leave for Susa to declare loyalty to the king when, the day before leaving, we received a party of warriors through our gates. It happened fast, one minute I was following my boyish games, the second, the shouts started. My father's body was dragged in the courtyard by the new arrivals. There was blood streaming where his nose and ears had been and I wouldn't have recognized him if not for the boots he was wearing. With a foreign voice, he still found the breath to shout the traitor's name:

"Orxines betrayed us! Orxines, remember the name! Orxines!".

They didn't honor him with a quick death; whether on purpose or by lack of skill, it took them too many sword strikes to severe the head from his body. All the while, I could do nothing but stare at the scene in muted horror.

My mother somehow managed to escape them and jumped to her death from the tower. She landed a mere spear length away from me.

Even now, so many years later, images of father's disfigured face and mother's beautiful hair matted by blood plague my nights.

I was in a stupor when the men finally came for me; they had me bound and on their captain's horse in a blink of an eye. I heard my sisters screaming as we started trotting towards the exit, but memories from that point on are not fully with me. I remember though at some point asking what was to be of me:

"You'll make your weight in gold once gelded boy! Too bad your father didn't choose his companions better." As deep terror settled in my bones, I must've lost my senses for the rest of the ride.

The soldiers sold me on the same day to the slave dealer in Susa, the only satisfaction being that they didn't get my weight in gold. I believe it wasn't even the weight of the body part they were planning on cutting away.

I passed the next days in a tangle of fear and hunger, locked in an open cell with a dirty cot that I could sleep on. I could hear terrible screams coming from the shed nearby, where sobbing boys were going in and quiet ghosts were coming out. I wondered if the Vizier Bagoas had ever been this small and helpless and if the name had doomed me to fall in his foot-steps.

After three days of starving me and barely enough water not to die of thirst – they'd told me it was to make the cutting safer – they took me to the shed. I had kept my pride up until that point, but seeing the table with the knives and the frame that they would tie me to, I threw myself at the dealer's feet and begged him to let me go. They did not speak, nor gave me any compassion, just strapped me down and continued with their gossip. You'd think they were two friends sharing a goblet of wine, not getting ready to cut my life apart. My heart was a bird struggling for freedom in the cage of my chest, and it must have stopped when I felt the knife's sharp bite, my voice breaking into hopeless screams.

There was confusion and loud voices and even though I knew better than to expect them to stop, they somehow did. Through foggy eyes I saw a vaguely familiar face reaching over me. The man's mouth was moving but I couldn't make sense of the words he must've been speaking, and when gentle hands untied and raised me to his chest I finally let go.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

I woke up in the quiet of a warm, soft bed. There was movement near me and voices speaking softly:

"He'll pull through my lord. They only made one incision that I closed back up. I'm more concerned about the lack of water. The boy is as dry as a stick in the desert; he must wake soon and drink."

I tried moving but sharp pain in my groin stopped me. Panic swept as I struggled to get the thick blankets off me. Strong hands stopped me:

"Shhh, shhh, you're fine boy, stop moving. Here, have some water." The cool metal on my lips and the taste of fresh water in my mouth felt like a blessing, so I gulped greedily.

"Easy now, don't spill." Gentle fingers supported my head and I finally saw my rescuer's face clearly. I knew the man's name, Oxyathres, one of the lords that had gathered around my father's table lately. Looking at his kind face, the misery of the past days rushed through me, and I started crying.

He picked me up like a mother would a sick child, careful of my body's pains. I told him through big, chocking tears about my father and mother, about the captain's mockery and the slave master's cruelty.

When I finally settled down he asked me if I knew him.

"I remember you my lord."

"Your father was a good friend Bagoas, you need not concern yourself about your future, I'll be a father to you just as Artembares would if he were still alive. This I promise."

I didn't ask how he'd found me but he told me the story in the following days. He'd been sent to our home after the king's death, to secure my father's support on his brother's behalf. I remembered Artashata as a tall, handsome man, who sometimes used to pick me up and hold me on his knees while the adults carried on with their grown-up talk. As cousin to the deceased King, he was next in line to the Throne and wanted my father on his side. Oxyathres found the fort burnt, with the bodies of my parents and three sisters left outside for the birds to pick apart. He left them with a heavy heart, but something kept nagging at the back of his mind. It was only when he reached Susa that the thing bothering him was finally clear; there was no body for the son of the family. He then told me it was like a foreign force had pushed him towards the slave dealer's court.

Maybe it was my parent's fravashi that guided him that day, or maybe he knew the only place for a pretty orphan was the slaver's business; the only thing certain is that, had he been two minutes late, my father's line would've seen no more sons.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

I healed quickly, with the impatience and vigor of youth. My sleep though was troubled by nightly terrors that I could never fully remember... not that I wanted to. But those too became rarer and forgotten more easily as time passed by.

That same summer, Lord Artashata became Great King Darius III, as he'd intended, and to my great relief, the Vizier Bagoas died not long after. I didn't know if the eunuch had his hands in my family's death, but growing up with stories of his villainy, in my mind he was guilty of all evil.

As for Oxyathres, he made good on his promise to make me a son. It was not uncommon for families to take orphans into their home; there were contracts drawn and in the eye of the law, an adopted son was as rightful an heir as a child by blood. Oxyathres had no male heirs, and although still in his prime, he never took another wife after his first died in childbirth. He had a daughter though, Amastris, five years older than me. But as boys' and young women's station in life is, we rarely saw each other.

With my father, I was used to receiving lessons for the mind and for the young warrior's body directly from him. Oxyathres, as brother to the Great King, had duties taking him away from our home in Susa quite often. I was usually left behind, though there was a veritable army of tutors teaching me everything, from reading and writing Old Persian, Aramaic and Greek, for which I was praised to have real skill at, to learning how to shoot arrows from the back of a galloping horse.

Maybe it was the feeling that I was given a very rare chance when I was saved from a life of service that pushed me, but I applied myself intensely to everything I was taught. I practiced with sword and bow and spear and words until I fell in exhaustion each evening. It was a good life though, and Oxyathres took real pride in my accomplishments. If sometimes I imagined my own father smiling approvingly at me, I never let it known.

It was the spring of my 12th year when the air of change began whistling through our lands.


	2. The King's Boys

**Author's Notes**: As Alexander begins his invasion of Persia, Bagoas continues his life with Oxyathres, gets an idea of Darius' worth and makes the acquaintance of Oromedon.

As mentioned, I took some liberties with Darius. It always bothered me in the book that he's bedding the 13 year old son of a deceased friend. I thought it an important character tell. No matter how you spin it, it's not something a decent man does, even taking into account Persian customs and ancient shady morality.

Oromedon was supposed to pop up briefly and go away, but he started having a voice of his own and wouldn't leave me alone. Bagoas and him seemed to show a great affinity for eachother so it looks like he'll be in for the long haul.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

**Chapter 2**

**The King's Boys**

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

Not long after I turned twelve, news reached us that the new Macedonian King had crossed the Hellespont into Mysia. They said this young barbarian threw a spear into our land and shouted for everyone to hear that he accepted Persia as a gift from Gods. He was an eager leopard, spoiling for a fight, but Darius seemed not concerned.

In my years with Oxyathres I had met the royal family, of which I was a part now, and despite all Persian boys being taught to revere the Great King, I found the feeling did not come naturally to me. I remembered Darius well from the time he was a guest in our house, as the man that used to sit at my father's table and drink our wine and even in one instance toss me in the air like a baby, making me laugh, and couldn't reconcile him with the statuesque perfection he presented now. In the rare moments he addressed me, he never mentioned my father, though I always felt there was some loaded sentiment in the way he looked at me.

And then, an incident occurred, that helped me get a better measure of the man.

The spring the Macedonians invaded, I was out with the royal hunting trip in the hills north of Susa, the last hunt before we had to leave for Persepolis to welcome the New Year. It was a large party, superbly attired, and the King was, as usual, the most splendid of them all. He was riding a striking Nisaean stallion, its colour an unusual gold, like a freshly minted gold coin. To this day, I've never seen a more magnificent animal.

We'd been out for most of the morning and already caught more game than the palace kitchens knew what to make of. The King was focused on the servants retrieving his spear from a boar he'd just killed, when out of nowhere, a leopard rushed towards him with the stealth of the experienced predator. It was a nursing female, with cubs probably hidden in the area, and attacked with the desperation only mothers know when defending their young. Darius was exposed on the side, most of the party having moved on, and the servants were busy with their slayed game. The gold stallion must've sensed the danger and moved at the last moment, saving the King from harm and only taking a shallow scratch on its hind leg. As the leopard prepared to attack again, it was the King's favourite boy that reached him first. He threw a javelin at the animal, scaring it off, but the movement spooked his mount and he was thrown. Fortunately by then, the other servants came to attention and managed to shoot down the animal.

I was several lengths away, with other boys my age, and barely had time to react. When we reached them, Oromedon, for that was the favourite's name, was being attended to. He had a nasty gash where he'd hit his head on a sharp looking stone but looked more distressed than such a wound would warrant. The King dismounted, spoke some words to him that I could not hear from where I was standing, and then focused his attention on his stallion. Frowning, he asked for another mount.

I didn't make much of it, but the next day I learned from the stable master that the horse had been sold, deemed unfit for the royal stables, though he was bought at full value, the scratch only a faint reminder of his quick animal mind and good training.

A week later, Palace rumours reached us that Oromedon was no longer in the King's graces. I wondered about that, as I'd been convinced nothing would move the boy from favour, now that he'd saved his Master's life or at least prevented him from coming to harm.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

By then, I was used to roaming free the streets of Susa, riding to the market, though I always made sure to stay clear of the area near the Slave Dealer's court. I'd used to entertain ideas of Oxyathres putting my captors through the sword the day of my rescue, until the day I asked him what had become of them. He cautiously explained they could not be charged with any crime, for I was sold and bought with proper papers. What he didn't tell me, but I divined on my own, was that boys of noble birth were highly sought after prey when family feuds left them alone in the world. I swore to take my vengeance one day, for I was sure they'd known exactly whose son I was and didn't care, but I was careful to stay away until the right time came.

On one of my rides back from the market, passing the quiet streets near our home, I saw Oromedon once more, leaving one of the rich houses in the area through a great bronze-studded gate. He was still richly dressed and heavily adorned, despite his fall from grace. I almost passed him by but curiosity got the best of me in the end; and there was no harm in engaging him in conversation: "You're Oromedon right, of the King's court?"

He startled a bit at my voice but turned a pair of bright eyes on me:

"Yes indeed, may I be of help?"

I dismounted, introduced myself as son of Oxyathres and told him I had seen him at the hunt:

"Very well done and quicker than the guards, the King must have been well pleased and grateful for the deed." Well yes, I wasn't the most subtle soul at the tender age of 12.

His eyes were merry as he replied.

"Very grateful in his Divine grace, he gifted me the horse and many other riches. He was most generous."

I didn't know how to continue from there and he seemed to greatly enjoy my awkwardly concealed curiosity. In the end I decided to be done with it: "Then why did he turn you away?"

He didn't answer immediately, though his face took on a pensive quality. He looked at me questioningly, like he was trying to gauge if there was any malicious intent behind my query. Something must have reassured him that it was just naïve interest:

"I wasn't turned away, my place is safe and I want for nothing, but the Great King likes perfection in everything and everyone, as is his due right… and I'm no longer perfect".

I had a good look at him, and though it was possible he could have scars under his clothing, he moved with graceful ease.

"Not perfect?"

He turned his head towards me, eyes intent, and I could finally see a faint scar on the brow hidden from me, where he'd hit his head during the hunt. I thought it gave him distinction and told him so.

He laughed, but there was warmth there.

"My father always told me not to trust men without scars". Blushing I added, "Though I don't think he had your… profession in mind."

"Ah, your father would probably tell you to distrust our profession entirely; he doesn't like our kind too much".

I wondered for a second how he'd known my father and then realised his mistake: "Oh, not Oxyathres, I am not of his blood. My father died two summers passed".

He was quiet for a moment, before answering me, "I'm sorry, may he have crossed the Chinvat Bridge safely."

"He was a good man, I have no doubt Rashnu found him worthy."

There was some new depth of feeling when he looked at me, "it's good you have another home now, not all boys have this fortune".

"I know". Silence descended on us, though it was comfortable. For all the briefness of the exchange, I found I liked the man; there was a hidden well behind his bright and gay appearance and a difficult to pin down quality in spirit that inspired trust.

That's why, when we were some steps away from my house, I told him hesitantly:

"For all it matters, the King is wrong." Oh, I knew it was treason to speak so, "there's more value in broken things that proved their worth than in untouched perfection."

Oromedon smiled softly, and touched his hand to my free one, "You're a rare bud my little lord and those young eyes of yours see some truth. But sometimes there is value in unproved perfection also, it promises to blossom into greatness."

We said out goodbyes under the hope of new friendship.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

Oromedon was right about Oxyathres in one regard. He didn't look kindly on pleasure boys. I know he realized how close I'd been to becoming one and he never treated me with anything less than affection, so I wondered why he shouldn't feel more sympathy.

One early evening, we were inside the Palace first court when I spied Oromedon with a young boy around my age at his side, talking with an older eunuch at an entry to the Palace rooms. Oxyathres hissed at my side, "Not another one!"

He left me waiting there while he went for his business. I continued to watch Oromedon until the eunuch he was talking to departed with the boy. He turned, saw me and came striding towards my resting place.

"Well met, My Little Lord."

"Well met Oromedon."

We smiled.

"Your replacement?"

He laughed out loud at that, "I hope so, for the boy's sake. He tires easily, our Lord, and though he likes them young, he minds greenness in spirit and in manner".

I thought of asking him how he'd managed for so long then, but it felt too intimate a knowledge despite our previous conversation. So I asked instead if finding boys was his new task in the household.

"Oh no, there are others doing it. I don't think I could find the heart to go those places and take my pick from those lost souls. I'm just the bedroom trainer for my Master."

I raised my brows in silent question.

"Like stable master, instead of training horses, I train boys in giving pleasure."

I must have blushed to the roots of my hair with a strange mix of embarrassment and curiosity.

He laughed again, "I forget your youth, but then I've trained one just your age."

He looked a bit sad now.

"Do you resent him, taking what was yours?"

He considered me carefully. "Resent him? No. I took pride in my position for it was not easily earned, but I don't miss it. There is a freedom to be found in my new station, but like a bird suddenly freed from its life in the cage, I find I don't know how to use my wings just yet."

For a moment I thought that was all he would speak, but hesitantly he carried on:

"I speak out of place, but I trust you won't carry the words of this old eunuch..."

I smiled at his shallow attempt at vanity, but reassured him none the less:

"You're hardly older than twenty springs… and you can always speak freely."

In a lower but more intense voice, he told me words that I can still recall perfectly: "It's wrong, the boy you saw before was robbed of all pleasant feeling when they cut him off. To serve as pleasure slave in his condition and know nothing of pleasure is to be mocked by fate and mortal masters. But then, such is the life of us, without the thing to make us man, without a womb to carry sons. We give, they take."

I didn't know what to say, and so I reached and took his hand in mine.

We sat in silence for a little while, before he took his leave. Oxyathres appeared soon after, and we departed for the house, the sun low in the sky as night began to fall over the city. I was in a funny disposition, Oromedon's confession giving me no peace of mind. Until that moment I hadn't given much thought to slaves' condition, let alone to that of bed-boys. Slaves and eunuchs were no more a novelty in the nobleman's house than heat is in the summer months. And in the end I always thought they had a better life with us than starving in the streets or being put to death after being defeated as our enemies. But then again, it could've been my fate as well, and I was neither poor, nor conquered.

We left for Persepolis soon after, and I had the chance to see the King with his new boy at a feast that spring. Darius was looking at him like a big cat stalking its prey, tasting it already with its eyes. If not for the boy looking like a scared doe in return, I wouldn't have minded. However, I didn't have time to give it much thought. That same evening, an envoy reached Persepolis telling us that Alexander had defeated our forces at Granicus, putting a stop to the festivities.

Oxyathres shared with me the battle tale over our morning meal, as he had heard it himself in company of the King. Darius had been furious. With news of the Macedonian's victory, he also learned of Mithridates' death, a son by marriage to his eldest daughter, felled by Alexander himself. According to the envoy, the barbarian King had cut two other cavalry commanders with his own hand.

I felt war clouds gathering over the peaceful existence we had led so far, and prayed for our swift victory. I didn't want to imagine what was to become of us under this barbarian who, in a gesture of contempt, had buried our dead at Granicus*.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

*Alexander apparently made a mistake after the battle of Granicus. Not being aware of the Persian custom of leaving the dead in the open, he offered the same burial rituals to his enemy as he did to the Macedonians.


End file.
